


Revenge Is a Dish Best Served at 37 Degrees F

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Banter, Bullying, Canon Related, Christmas, Crack, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What ever happened to the head in the fridge?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge Is a Dish Best Served at 37 Degrees F

Living with Sherlock had taught John a lot of things over the years. Some of these things were fairly innocuous, even useful. Like the little bits of French he'd picked up here and there (especially the curse words) or that time Sherlock had taken them out and taught him how to drive a stick shift (another product of extreme boredom).

Other things were certainly useful, though only if you lived with a consulting detective or were planning to rob a bank. By now John knew how to effectively pick a padlock and disarm the most common of alarm systems. He could make homemade chloroform using bleach, ice, and acetone. He'd even had extensive lessons in moving silently through unknown environments (not that he hadn't learned all that in the army, but Sherlock wasn't satisfied with his training. He claimed you'd never know when you might need to burgle a house). Needless to say, he'd learned quite a bit.

However, there were also things he'd learned that were simply bizarre.

John now knew that grapes explode violently when heated in the microwave (though they're better than exploding human eyes…), he knows that Monday is the favored day for suicides (granted, he already knewMondays were evil…), and he'd learned that men were capable of having erections after death (he didn't want to know how Sherlock found that out. He just didn't). So those things… not so useful. Though he had hope – this funny, ridiculous hope – that someday his acquired knowledge of the strange and disgusting might someday prove valuable.

Oddly enough, in December of 2011, that day came.

However, back in 2010 he couldn't have known that one of his and Sherlock's first disagreements would provide knowledge he'd use over a year later. Among these previously mentioned facts, Sherlock, in his own unique way, had taught John about caring for the human body. Granted, in Sherlock's case that meant the dead human body but the sentiment was the same. The first time John had opened their new fridge he'd found a severed head inside. The second and third times he'd opened that door, the head was still there. By the twenty-fifth time he'd been resigned to the fact that the head was here to stay.

"Sherlock," he'd finally asked, "does it have to be in the fridge?"

Hi flatmate looked up from the kitchen table and gave him a look that clearly expressed his low opinion of John's intelligence.

"Yes John, it has to stay in the fridge."

"But… our food-"

"Will be just fine John. You worry too much." And then Sherlock imparted his first nugget of eccentric wisdom. "I have to keep him in the fridge if I want to study his decomposition. The optimum temperature for slowing but not arresting decay is 37 degrees Fahrenheit. If I wanted to halt the decomposition process I would place it in the freezer, preferably at 5 degrees Fahrenheit. However, if I left the poor head to the mercy of the elements he wouldn't last very long."

John's medical training kicked in and he stored that information for a later date, again in the hopes that it might be useful.

But for now, he simply wanted to enjoy a meal without risk of poisoning or something equally undesirable.

"Alright, fine. He can stay, but keep him away from my jam."

***

Three months into their rooming together John couldn't help but notice how… couple-ish they were. They shared the newspaper every morning, John taking the sports section and Sherlock scouring the rest for interesting murders. Sherlock brought home the bacon so to speak (aka when there weren't enough cases Mycroft slipped some funds into his account, labeling it 'allowance') and John did all the shopping. He'd even realized they bickered like a married couple more often than not. Really, when he thought about it, the implications were quite scary.

But John wasn't a soldier for nothing. He was used to dealing with disturbing and possibly dangerous situations. So when he realized that he and Sherlock were basically a couple now he chose to bypass the denial phase and head straight into accepting the new development. More than that, he plunged ahead like one of the queen's true veterans and decided to seal the deal.

He suggested getting a pet.

It was, after all, the ultimate symbol of domestic bliss. What better way to say you'd accepted a person into your house and home than to obtain a creature that required commitment from both individuals? It was the perfect way to say 'hey, I love you and I don't plan to leave. At least, not for the length of this pet's lifespan.'

The only problem was finding a suitable companion. Sherlock was acutely allergic to cats (for which John had given him no little grief) and disaster had struck when they attempted to babysit Lestrade's bulldog. Sherlock claims it was all his fault for letting the mutt into the kitchen, John maintains that it's Sherlock's fault for keeping chemicals on such a low table in the first place. Either way, Lestrade never let them babysit again and from then on it was clear that getting a dog of their own was out of the question.

John briefly considered buying something more exotic, like a snake or maybe a skunk, but nothing seemed quite right. After a while he'd pretty much given up on having a pet. It was okay really, they were already a pretty damn unconventional pair; no reason they should try acting normal now.

And then, one day, he opened the fridge for some juice and had an epiphany.

He should name the head.

"Sherlock," he said.

"What?"

"Can I name him?" John pointed to the body part sitting comfortably on the second shelf. He was a lot greener than he'd been before and his skin was sort of sliding off, but he was still a perfectly good head. Truth be told, John had grown quite fond of him.

He waited but Sherlock only stared at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, slowly, he nodded.

"Great!" Turning back to the fridge John considered his decapitated friend. After much consideration he announced "Zuke!"

"Zuke?" said Sherlock blankly.

"Yes, he will be Zuke."

"What the hell is a Zuke?"

John threw him a look that clearly announced Sherlock was the idiot this time. "Why, the severed head of a unicorn of course."

There was a beat of silence and then without any warning Sherlock was up and kissing him. It wasn't anything deep, just a warm pressure and the slight exhalation of breath. It was the kind of kiss you'd give someone you'd been with for 30+ years. It wasn't extraordinary, but as far as first kisses went, it was wonderful.

Leaning back Sherlock cupped his cheek and smiled.

"Wow," he said "and I thought I was weird."

***

Thus Zuke became a member of the family and the three of them were very happy together. Other people however, weren't as thrilled with the new addition.

"You… named the head?" said Sally. They were working a crime scene late on Wednesday, two days after the naming of Zuke. Or, rather, Sherlock was working and John was keeping the rest of the team entertained.

"Yep" he answered. "His name is Zuke. According to Urban Dictionary that's the appropriate term for the severed head of a unicorn. Cool, right?"

Blank stares all around. Lestrade began to look slightly amused but Sally and Anderson shifted closer together.

"I mean yes," he continued, laughing "I realize it's a bit unconventional, having a severed head as a pet, but really, it was the best I could do. Although," John stopped, pretending to think a moment "considering that Zuke is a human head, I wonder if that makes him more our child than our pet…"

"What," Sally breathed "did I tell you about fishing?"

John shrugged. "Fishing's boring." With that he was off, catching up to Sherlock to see what the dead man's trousers said about his life story. However, just before he was out of range he heard Sally and Anderson speaking together:

"I knew it. I knew his freakish behavior was contagious. What if we're all infected, huh?"

"I know… maybe if we're lucky they'll get bored and murder each other…"

"One can only hope. God, and John was such a nice guy…"

"John is a nice guy" Lestrade interrupted, glaring at them both. "and personally I think it's wonderful that he and Sherlock are getting along. John's a good influence on him."

"You blind?" said Sally "clearly John's not the influential party here. I only hope he comes to his senses soon and dumps the freak like the trash he is."

John didn't stop. He didn't turn around. He didn't confront Sally and Anderson about their hurtful words. You couldn't, after all, please everyone, so he ignored it.

But he didn't forget.

***

Sadly, they eventually had to pack Zuke away in the freezer. He was decomposing at a rapid pace and needed to spend some time in deep freeze. Sherlock gave John a kiss and told him to think about it as a vacation. Zuke would eventually be back, he just needed to rejuvenate a bit.

So life went on without Zuke, though he wasn't forgotten. And no, that didn't mean that John actively missed the head (he wasn't quite to the point of pining for body parts yet) instead it was Sally who couldn't leave the subject alone.

"Hey freak!" she yelled "You and Johnny missing your love child? I always knew that if you had kids they'd be as queer as you but Johnny, come on, I expected better!"

"Honestly," John muttered, coming up alongside Sherlock and Lestrade. "That child comment was a joke and she really needs to stop calling me Johnny…"

Lestrade patted his shoulder kindly. "I'll talk to them again" he sighed. "She and Anderson have always been unprofessional, but this is a bit much."

"I'll say." John gave Lestrade a smile before he moved off, yelling at his yarders to shut the fuck up already.

Sally wouldn't though. He could practically hear he rolling her eyes and claiming that if the freaks wanted to live 'unconventionally' then they could damn well deal with the consequences.

John tuned her out. However, turning towards Sherlock he was surprised to see him standing stock still, breathing deeply with his hands clenched.

"Hey," John began, touching him on the arm, but Sherlock just shrugged him off and moved away.

***

Sally and Anderson didn't lay off, not that John expected them to. Really, this wasn't so different from their normal teasing, just a bit more exaggerated. Though after he'd seen visual proof of Sally's words getting to Sherlock John had confronted him, but it hadn't been a revealing conversation. He explained that it wasn't so much the taunting – he'd dealt with that throughout his whole life – merely the amount of it. Normally he just let their words slide off of him but that day he'd been frustrated with the lack of evidence at their crime scene and the taunts just seemed more barbed than usual. Basically Sherlock admitted to being human and John could hardly fault him for that.

He, however, was quickly becoming unsatisfied with simply ignoring the situation and Lestrade's intervention – while well meaning – was hardly effective. John didn't want to outright confront the pair though, their teasing was childish and hurtful to be sure, but John didn't think they truly meant real harm. When push came to shove John believed Sally and Anderson both would protect him and Sherlock, just like they'd do for the rest of the team. They were stupid, not evil, but really, this was starting to get old.

John knew he wanted to do something, he just wasn't sure what that something was yet.

***

A few months later, on a rainy Saturday morning, John opened the fridge to find Zuke back on his shelf. He was surprisingly pleased to see him there. Although, he couldn't say that Zuke's freeze vacation had done him a world of good. He was still decomposing… really decomposing. Poor fellow had even lost one of his eyes. But still, John was glad to have him back.

"Hey there Zuke" he said "how are you man?"

'I'm doing pretty well John, how bout you?'

"Oh I'm good, I'm good. Finally convinced Sherlock to get a second microwave. Or rather, I dropped some not-so-subtle hints and got Mycroft to buy one. Now I can re-heat my tea without risk of infection."

'That's wonderful! Glad you two are getting along'.

"Yeah. Honestly, things are great." John peeked around Zuke, trying to decide what to have for breakfast.

'I really am happy for you. About time you guys got it on. So spill, are things as good in the bedroom as out?'

"Ah, ah ah Zuke. I don't kiss and tell."

'Killjoy.'

"Pervert." With a muttered word of victory John pushed back the eggs and spotted his pot of jam. He'd also managed to find Zuke's missing eye, balanced on top. Picking said eye up he leveled a glare at the head. "What have I told you about touching my jam?"

'Sorry Johnny-boy. Blame Sherly.'

"Don't call me Johnny. Later Zuke." Shutting the fridge John turned to start his toast but stopped, thinking over the names.

"John? Who were you just talking to?"

"No one Sherly!" he said, and laughed.

***

Life then continued much as it had before. They fought crime, John bought milk, Sherlock filled their rooms with noxious gas, John had long, philosophical conversations with Zuke, they kissed, they had sex, they hung out with Mycroft (not necessarily in that order) and they both continued giggling at crime scenes. Life was good.

The only thing that could make it better would be if certain Scotland Yarders would leave them alone. John still didn't know what to do about Sally but he and Sherlock both were close to lashing out and potentially saying something they'd later regret. And really, he only had to deal with Sally. Anderson was just following her lead and would lose interest the moment she did. The only question was, how?

And then, one day, the answer came in a creative and wonderfully unexpected flash of insight.

It was December of 2011 and he and Sherlock were curled up on the sofa watching The Godfather. In truth this was an early Christmas present for John. He'd been trying to get Sherlock to watch this film for ages and he'd finally given in, but only because John was so 'ridiculously attached' to the holiday season and Sherlock 'didn't know what else to get him anyway.' John was just fine with that. The memory of Sherlock comically picking apart his favorite movie was a better gift than any material knickknack he'd find in a store.

What he was really looking forward to was Sherlock's reaction to the horse scene. It was just gruesome enough and creative enough for him to enjoy it. Finally, just as he'd predicted, the moment Woltz woke up with blood in his bed and a lump under his sheets Sherlock was cracking a grin.

"That," he said "is wonderful."

"Isn't it just?"

"Mmmm" Sherlock agreed. "That, now that is clever. What I wouldn't give for a horse's head every time somebody pissed me off. Think Lestrade knows any local animal hospitals willing to donate?"

And that's when it hit him. This astounding, brilliant, crazy idea. Three separate things came together to create what had to be the stupidest and consequently the most exhilarating thought that had ever crossed John Watson's mind.

Sally + The Godfather + the head = retribution.

To quote Sherlock, how completely wonderful.

Just a few days ago they'd had a conversation about what to do with Zuke. He was long past his prime and soon wouldn't be fit for any human establishment, even a holmes' residence (not to mention Mrs. Hudson was starting to comment on, what was to her, an unidentified smell). John suggested burial but was informed that he was overly sentimental. Sherlock then suggested cremation so that they could scatter him and tell Sally she would forever be breathing him in. The sadistic side of John liked that idea, but now he'd just had a better one.

"Sherlock… can I borrow Zuke?"

That certainly raised an eyebrow. "What for exactly?"

"Umm…" John hedged a bit. "It's a surprise. I need him for your Christmas present."

"John…"

"We both know he doesn't have long now anyway and I promise I'll take good care of him." Those words were like a spell because suddenly Sherlock's face lighted up with a smile.

"I know you will." He said. "You're the only man I know who truly appreciates decapitated heads."

Sherlock leaned in for a kiss and John happily returned it, but his mind was miles away.

He was planning a surprise for Sally Donovan.

***

So here John was, in December of 2011, thinking back on his first conversation with Sherlock about Zuke: 'the optimum temperature for slowing but not arresting decay is 37 degrees Fahrenheit.'

So he'd went and bought a cooler, careful to make sure it could be lowered to at least 37 degrees, and hoped that Zuke would be comfortable on their journey. He then rented a car and drove the forty-five minute route to Sally's place.

He'd actually started this whole procedure hours before. Despite what Sally had been saying, John was known around the Yard as being a ridiculously nice guy. It wasn't unheard of for him to do random favors for people, drop off the newspaper for a desk-bound over-worked lackey, or just treat a guy to a drink at the end of a long day (Lestrade had taken him up on that offer more than once). Needless to say people knew John was the caring one of the group, the 'mother of the Yard' some of them joked. So no one thought twice when he'd waltzed in with a plate of biscuits. He said he'd gotten bored, took to baking, and thought someone other then himself and Sherlock should benefit from the result. All he had to do was make sure Sally ate that one special biscuit. The one with the powered chloroform Sherlock had invented years ago, specifically designed to kick in hours after ingestion.

Sally would never be suspicious of a biscuit baked by John Watson. No one ever suspected he just might have a devious side. It's almost like they forget he'd been a soldier in Afghanistan and currently lived with Sherlock Holmes.

Mores the pity for them.

Having arrived at his destination John carefully removed the cooler from the back seat and surveyed the area. Sally's building wasn't nearly as nice as theirs, though that made it easier for John to implement the more useful skills Sherlock had taught him. He disarmed the alarm system for the whole building, picked the lock on Sally's flat, and, treading carefully as he had been taught, snuck inside.

He'd kind of hoped for something exciting but her rooms were rather ordinary. Small sitting room with couch, telly, and table. A tiny kitchenette off to the left and in front of him the door to her bedroom. It was all so… normal. He guessed he'd just been living with Sherlock for too long.

Moving cautiously, the cooler tucked under one arm, John eased open the bedroom door… and stopped dead. There, instead of one sleeping body, were two.

'Oh bloody hell,' he thought.

He hadn't expected to deal with Anderson as well but he should have. He knew they were seeing each other, he should have realized he might be staying over. Sally was out cold like he'd planned but Anderson… God, Sherlock wouldn't have overlooked something like this.

Though then again… hadn't he heard Sally complain more than once that Anderson 'slept like the dead'? According to her at least he was a 'regular bloke, sleeping through the apocalypse if given the chance.' He recalled one anecdote she shared about two months ago. Apparently Anderson had gotten up in the middle of the night for a midnight snack of – again, being the 'bloke he is' – bacon. He'd started frying it up, sat down on the couch, promptly fell asleep and proceeded to stay sleep through the subsequent fire alarm.

So if he could sleep through that, surely he could sleep through the wanderings of one little John Watson.

Sneaking forward he placed the cooler on the ground and carefully – oh so carefully! – undid the snaps. With the top open he just as slowly approached the bed on his hands and knees (wondering all the while what kind of an excuse he could make up for being in here) and gently lifted up the end of their quilt. With that done he took Zuke from the cooler and began carefully slipping him beneath the quilt.

It took him nearly twenty minutes to work Zuke forward under the covers until he was centered between the two sleepers. John had made sure to wear gloves but a good deal of fluids had smeared onto the bed and quite honestly he was terrified that any moment the smell would wake Anderson up. But luck, and Sherlock's chloroform, were on his side. By the time an hour had gone by the covers were back in their proper place but now there was a sizable lump lying between Sally and Anderson, hidden but quite obviously there. With Zuke's face covered the three of them actually looked quite peaceful.

He couldn't wait for them to wake up.

Before leaving he had one last skill to employ, this one courtesy of the elder Holmes brother. Moving to the air vent directly across from the bed he implanted one of Britain's more sophisticated cameras behind the rungs. The joy of knowing one of the most powerful men on earth was not only that he could learn how to utilize these tools but given the right conditions (aka blackmail) he could obtain them as well.

John only had the one camera and he'd originally planned to save it for when they needed to bug a criminal's room. But this, this was more than worth it.

With that complete John stood in the center of the room and bid Zuke a heartfelt goodbye. Before long he was slipping out the building, heading home to wait eagerly for morning.

***

"Sherlock! Sherlock wake up!" Of course, of course the one time he wanted him awake he was passed out – in their actual bed no less. Normally he'd let Sherlock catch whatever sleep he could but this was too important. He wanted him to view this live.

Finally his flatmate opened his eyes and leveled an impressive glare his way.

"John. Either someone had better have been murdered very gruesomely or you had better be prepared to offer me the greatest sex this world has ever seen."

John grinned. "It's your Christmas present."

"It had better be a corpse or really fantastic sex."

"It's better."

With that John was up, knowing that Sherlock would follow.

Once he'd gotten back to Baker Street he'd spent the rest of the night setting everything up. He'd hooked his computer up to the camera in Sally's apartment and was pleased to receive a high quality image of his two co-workers, still sound asleep. (However he'd then closed his computer. He didn't want to watch them in bed any more than he had to).

The rest of the prep wasn't much. He got the heat going so it would be nice and warm. He cleared the couch so there would be plenty of space. He made popcorn.

By this point Sherlock had finally made it downstairs.

"John? What are you doing?" Grabbing him by the shoulders he lowered Sherlock onto the couch and handed him the popcorn.

"What," John said mischievously "you can't deduce what's going on?"

For a moment he saw Sherlock seriously contemplating everything before him. "You're going to show me something…" John grinned. "But what it is… I'mnotsure"

"Sorry Sherlock, what was that?"

"You heard me very well. I'm not saying it again."

With a laugh John jumped onto the couch with him. "I'm showing you a remake of The Godfather."

"That's my Christmas present?" My word he sounded indignant.

"Don't worry, you'll like this more than the original." John glanced at his watch. "4:55 am. She always sets her alarm for 5:00."

"She?" asked Sherlock

"Yep." Without further ado John opened his computer and loaded the program.

That moment of silent, that shocked moment of silent, was the greatest thing John had ever experienced.

"Is that…" Sherlock stopped. "Is that Donovan and Anderson?"

"Yeeeeep" god he was enjoying this.

"What did you do?"

For a brief second John thought Sherlock might be mad – could he really have upset the morals of a man who seemingly had none? – but no, his face showed nothing but uninterrupted bliss.

"You bugged their room." Nope. He'd lied. The awe in Sherlock's voice was the greatest thing he'd ever experienced. Awe for him and his work.

"Oh just wait. It gets better." He pointedly ignored Sherlock whipping his head around to stare at him and settled in to wait.

Four minutes later, at exactly 5:00 am, Sally Donovan's alarm went off.

The beautiful portion was the first thirty seconds, before she realized anything was amiss. After that, John couldn't have asked for more if he'd choreographed it himself. She was no timid Woltz and no one could ever claim she lacked courage. She tore aside the covers to get at whatever had invaded her bed.

Sherlock's ecstatic cry of "Zuke!" was timed perfectly with her scream.

After that it was pure pandemonium. Sally's scream had caused Anderson to come awake with a start and roll over onto Zuke. Once he realized what it was he was lying on he shrieked even louder and higher than Sally. In instinct Anderson kicked out and only succeeded in kicking Zuke into Sally's lap. She screamed again, fell to the floor, immediately began cursing in an impressive number of languages, and finally pushed poor Zuke under the bed. With him out of sight they were able to regain their capacity for speech and both began yelling at each other.

Halfway through Sally's 'what the hell did you bring into my house' John paused the video. With a few clicks he'd ejected the CD he'd been recording it on and handed the disk to Sherlock.

Solemnly, like others might take hold of a precious child, Sherlock took the CD. John had never seen him happier.

"This," he said "is your Christmas present."

It turned out that Sherlock got two gifts instead. He also received that fantastic sex he'd been looking for.

***

Two days later their team was at another crime scene, as apparently criminals didn't take much time off for Christmas.

John watched happily as Sherlock skipped around the junkyard, measuring this and magnifying that, trying to figure out why a young man had been dumped here four days ago. Anyone else would assume his good mood was because the man's body had been flattened into a pancake by those giant machines that crushed old cars, but John knew better.

Every once in a while his hand would dip into his coat pocket where a certain CD was kept.

It seemed however, that he and Sherlock were the only ones in a good mood. Sally and Anderson looked positively miserable. Imagine that. Oh well. It was too bad, but at least their foul mood kept them from picking on Sherlock.

Glancing over John found Sally already looking at him. She had a strange expression on her face, something halfway between horror and respect. Of course it wouldn't take her long to figure it out. How many people did she know who owned severed heads? John was confident though that she wouldn't say anything. He was pretty sure he got his message across but at the very least she would realize he could use this as priceless blackmail material. She'd keep quiet.

With a cheeky grin John threw Sally a wink and then left to go join his detective.


End file.
